Bewitched
by Arwen Lune
Summary: [revised] A Rohirric guard watches as a party of Elves pass through Edoras, and ponders on the legends of the Golden Wood. [Short, moody, mystery.]


[Note: I do not know if the elves - on their way to Minas Tirith, for the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen - passed through Edoras, though it seems not unlikely that they did. Tolkien said nothing at all about that particular journey, only about the arrival. In any event, Isabeau wrote it so, and I found the event inspiring, and thus this little snippet]  
  
  


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Bewitched  


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Elves are beautiful.  
  
  
I stand on the left side of the entrance doors to the Golden Hall, upon the small, elevated platform intended for the ceremonial guards. 

I am clad in full ceremonial armour, and the metal of my mail has warmed up on this early summers' day. The sword by my side I notice not – it has become a part of me – but the long spear I stand by my side is beginning to become cumbersome. I find myself wishing to be allowed to rest it against the wall, so that I may wipe my brow. A small trickle of sweat has formed in my neck, and my long hair makes it itch.

I breathe in deeply, steeling my resolve. It is an honour to be guard at this time, and I shall stand as still as the statues of our forefathers. 

Elves are beautiful.

Of course, legends have always told us that, and I had rather expected them to be, but still I was overwhelmed when the elves gathered before the Golden Hall.

I stand guard beside the doors of the hall, my sword at my side, my expression blank. But my eyes rest upon the company of these strange creatures.

How could our legends paint them evil? The lady I look upon now is the subject of many tales told by mothers to frighten their children, yet in her expression I see nothing bewitching. Galadriel, that is her name. 

Beautiful. 

Golden, tall, glorious, imposing and heartbreakingly beautiful – perhaps, in fact, so unattainably beautiful that my eyes slide past her. But for all those things, bewitching she is not.

There is another such lady, this one dark haired and grey of eye, and she is introduced as the Lady Arwen, future bride of Aragorn King of Gondor. Her raiment is a silvery grey that ripples when she moves, catching the light of the late sun into a silver-golden sea. Her hair hangs loose, hip-length and dark as ravens' feather. Aragorn King of Gondor is a fortunate man indeed.

But it is not on her that my eyes remain as the elves climb the stairs. Besides the Lady Galadriel a tall Lord walks, his hair and eyes grey as silver, and flanking them, five elves walk. 

They are singing under their breaths – two of them making soft rhythmic sounds, the other two weaving a cheerful marching melody in harmonious voices. The fifth – a tall blond elf I suspect might be their captain – does not sing, but he smiles indulgently.

They are clad in simple grey, wearing tunics and leggings, archers' arm-guards, a short cloak covering the front of their torso. All carry arms – longbows and daggers. Are they perhaps the household guard of the Lord and Lady of Lorien? My eyes glide over them, fascinated with seeing elves who are not nobility. They seem grave, and yet cheerful in a way that reminds me of my own kin, who could still see the beauty of life even as we fled to Helms' Deep. 

Who could still sing even as they entered the refuges.

Then finally, my gaze is caught by the eyes of one of the guards. A chill creeps down my spine. I did not know that female elves also serve, though it surprises me not. And this is no Lady.  
She is graceful, but not in the same way the great Ladies are. This elf strolls along calmly, her motions utterly confident. Her black hair is bound back from her temples by small plaits at the side of her head, but hangs in a loose flood down her back. It is a practical style popular with Elven archers, apparently.

The Lorien elves begin to mount the stairs, the guards singing softly as they come, and all of a sudden I find that the elfs' grey eyes are boring into mine. I feel an intense curiosity in her regard.   
When the small group is at the top of the stairs, the lady-archer suddenly breaks rank, shoulders her bow, and strides toward me. He movements carry the confidence of an accomplished fighter; of someone who knows she can handle whatever life throws in her direction. Suddenly I find her more beautiful than the grand ladies in the company, for this elf possesses a fierce beauty of earth and growth; the grace of a warrior. Not someone that one would worry about loving too fiercely. 

Ever toward me she comes, and I freeze with warmth and cold both under her keen gaze. Not intimidating like the Lady Galadriel she is, but those eyes hold such ageless gravity, and such curiosity, that it steals my breath.  
The elf lightly skips up the few steps onto the small platform I stand on, and halts before me, barely a hands' width away. I strain to stand very still, as my duty commands, but my eyes are locked on her face. 

She cocks her head slightly. Her skin is flawless and pale, her lips curved ever so slightly, and though I am very tall, she is only slightly shorter than I am. There is nothing fragile about her as she shoves the longbow back onto her shoulder, a brush of her cloak revealing a businesslike dagger hanging from her belt.   
Then all of a sudden a mischievous smile breaks through in those ageless grey eyes, and she leans forward, on her toes just slightly, and - my breath catches - brushes her lips against mine in a feather light kiss. I gasp involuntarily, for her touch sends a jolt of hot energy through my veins. Then the elf leans back, regards me with unmocking mirth in her eyes, and turns to lightly leap off the platform. Walking away, she rejoins her voice with the other singers, effortlessly stepping back into the melody. 

"Narie!" I hear the Lord of Lorien chide when she is back with her company, but there is a smile in his voice also, and the blonde captain exchanges a few sentences with her in melodious language. Just before the group enters the hall, she looks back at me, her hair flying over her shoulder with the sharp movement of her head. Again I find myself caught up in that cheerfully mischievous smile, and I fervently wish for time and opportunity to find out if she is in the habit of bewildering mortals, and what it was that brought her before me. 

With a cheerful nod and a beautiful smile, she turns and continues her way into the hall.

  
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
That night after my guard duties have ended, she comes to my bed. 

Utterly unselfconscious, she undresses and slides under the covers where I am lying, watching her in bewilderment. It was astonishing enough that such a creature choose me worthy of her attention and her kiss - it is beyond imagining that she would come to my bed. My eyes feast on the sight of her lithe form. 

"Won't your lord be displeased by this?" I ask her softly when I've found my voice. She drapes herself against my side, her hair fanning out behind her.

Her answer is a phrase of lyrical beauty, but I understand it not. Then it occurs to me that she probably didn't understand my Rohirric either, and I smile ruefully.  
"I should like to know your name then, fair lady..." I murmur, my fingertips trailing over the smooth muscles in her shoulder. She smells of early morning, of cool wind over dewed grass. 

"Elnarie," she whispers against the skin of my throat. I shiver involuntarily. 

"I am Arnwulf," I tell her, and that is the last I can say, for she claims my mouth for a long, sweet kiss. I grow bolder then, and soon her strong, sinewy body is beneath my own, and I find myself urged on by her touch and voice.

In the end she whimpers, and I clamp down on the groan that is trying to escape my lips. The elf arches her back, far stronger than she looks, and keens softly.  
"Arnh--"  
  
  
  
I wake up with her name on my lips, breathing hard, a sheen of sweat covering my back. Looking around in bewilderment, I find the elf gone. The loss cuts my soul sharply. Gone. Her smell, her feel, her voice - disappeared as if they have never been there. 

I sink back onto the bed.

Perhaps those old legends hold truth after all, but it was not the Golden Lady who bewitched me  
  
  
  
  


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This story was entered for the 'Anything, but ordinary' challenge on HASA. Feedback very much welcome – I would be especially interested in hearing what you thought the intention of the elf was...  
[note for Hellga, who left me a review: I'd be interested in hearing why you thought this was AU. It explores an event that might not have happened, but _could_ have happened. I did not need to change anything in Tolkiens' world to allow it to happen. It was simply not filled in, so I wonder why you think it is AU.]  
  
Cheers,  
Arwen Lune  



End file.
